


this is how you lose him.

by yamzy



Category: EXO (Band)
Genre: Angst, Character Study, Infidelity, M/M, Non-Linear Narrative, Stream of Consciousness, slight allusions to religion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-08
Updated: 2018-07-08
Packaged: 2019-06-07 01:25:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,217
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15207761
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yamzy/pseuds/yamzy
Summary: in which junmyeon conducts an autopsy of wheretheyhe went wrong.





	this is how you lose him.

**Author's Note:**

> I’ve been listening to too much Lorde, reading too much poetry I cannot understand, and running away from too much responsibilities. It’s 2 am as I write this and I just want to remember how writing for no one but myself—just for my own selfish, greedy satisfaction—feels like. Hence, the writing in whatever this is may be, _well,_ whatever it is—screw form and structure and convention and (I’m-so-sorry) _editing_. I just want to put something out there. 
> 
> This story is practically an ode to Manila, the place I didn’t mean to call my home. Coincidentally, this story is also Junmyeon’s ode to Yixing, his home—whose arms he didn’t mean to run away from.
> 
> (Disclaimer: The title of this fic is from Junot Diaz’s novel of the same name. I’ve only read four pages from the book, but I think I can assure you that this will not be based on his work.)
> 
>  

 

**_1\.    Roxas Boulevard, Manila._ **

 

Junmyeon didn’t know what time it was. It was probably only a few hours after the sun has set—which in hindsight, he didn’t really remember. It was odd, because he _knew_ he has been here for a while, but at the same time, he knew he _hasn’t_ been here for the same while.

 

Maybe not. Maybe he hasn’t been here for a long time.

 

The sunset in the long stretch of Roxas Boulevard has long been one of the most famous attractions in the area. Postcards, tourist websites, and history books for elementary children will always boast about the bursting colors of the scenery of the Manila Bay sunset. It’s not uncommon to see foreigners, with their large brimmed hats, almost-opaque sunglasses, and cameras dangling from their necks, appreciating the view. Even the locals—ice cream vendors, joggers, among others—would often stop in their tracks when the sun has started announcing its retirement.

 

There’s power in the sunset. How it reduced people to bewildered children stuck in awe, even for a just a few seconds, was a mystery that no one could solve—but then again, it was a question no one really asked. Who on Earth would even try to analyze a fucking sunset? It’s just the Manila Bay sunset, which one would just happen to pass while traversing along Roxas Boulevard—just another occurrence in nature, which just happened to be _pretty_. But who can deny its power? Among the trash that littered the shores of Manila Bay, hitting through waves that fight the walls separated man and sea; the cockroaches that played around the cobblestones of the boulevard’s walks; the harsh polluted air that contained the city, the sunset made people stop, and _look_. Maybe it’s just Manila’s way of distracting her people, like a child trying to ease her mother’s worries by laughing. But perhaps it’s also her way of reaching out, like a mother comforting her children, telling her child to _breathe_.

 

Still, Junmyeon couldn’t breathe. Air was coming in and out of his lungs, his chest was steadily moving—up and down, and up and down, and _again and again and again_ —but he still wasn’t breathing. He was sitting on the walls that separated the boulevard and the bay, but he still felt like he was drowning. The susurrus of the waves kept roaring in his ears, sprinkling him with splashes of water (and trash). Perhaps, they felt guilty as their dark, wet abyss reminded Junmyeon of the temptation of drowning. _In and out, in and out, in and out_ , the waves whispered to him in apology as it hit the walls.

 

Junmyeon followed. _In and out, in and out, in and out, I’m sorry, Yixing, I’m so sorry—_ he shook his head, almost furiously. What’s the use of breathing when he didn’t even feel alive?

 

There were other people in the area: a middle-aged couple sat near him— _the audacity_. The man put an arm around the woman, and she moved closer to him in response. He cradled her head and led it to the crook of his neck, which she faced. With darkness enveloping the night sky, and a few awkwardly-spaced lampposts as his eyes’ only recourse, Junmyeon didn’t have the luxury of seeing what the woman was doing. Was she kissing his neck ( _Don’t ask me that, please. You don’t have to ask that—don’t ask if you could have done a better job, why I didn’t let you do a much better job—it’s not your fault, I swear, it’s not—I don’t know. I made a mistake)_? Was she whispering her “I-love-you’s” ( _You’re the only one that I’ve ever let myself want—love—have—_ )? Was she offering her apologies ( _I’m sorry, Yixing, I’m so sorry—I failed you, us—_ )?

 

Junmyeon saw the woman move away from the man. As she did so, the light from one of the lampposts shone directly on her face. She was smiling at the man demurely, but her eyes conveyed what her smile couldn’t. As she looked at the man, there was depth in her eyes that rivaled the sea beside all of them— _love_.

 

It was an emotion Junmyeon couldn’t have hoped to decipher or even to determine from these two strangers. He didn’t know their histories, their stories, their names, but he did—because _stop smiling at me like that, Yixing, I’m going to melt—_

 

He looked away from them.

 

No.

 

No.

  
_No_.

 

Junmyeon couldn’t help it. He chased his curiosity, and stole a glance at them. The lamppost’s light was only capable of illuminating only a fragment of the man’s face, but still Junmyeon could see how he looked back at the woman. It was as if he were looking at the sunset.

 

_Fuck._

 

Suddenly, he could feel tears prickling his eyes. He struggled to breathe. 

 

_In—in—in—_

 

Was this how being alive was like? Trying—struggling to keep living? Has the sunset given him a taste of _wanting life_? Perhaps, it has only given him a taste of its power.

 

**2\.    Erra’s, Malate, Manila.**

 

His mother told him to stay away from places like these.

 

Granted, his mother was an overprotective woman who raised him alone, and him alone _only_. It was always them against the world, and at times, only them against the world. But Manila was different. Manila was another different world entirely. Manila was a world where he didn’t have to be against—where he didn’t _want_ to be against. Manila was the foster mother who stroked his back and told him he didn’t have to fight—against the world, against anyone, against himself. He didn’t _have_ to be anything or anyone. And most importantly, he didn’t have to be _alone_.

 

He loved his own mother—honestly! In the few years that he has been adopted by the city, he has gone through periods of hating how his mother raised him, how his mother did not raise him, but he has never hated his mother. She did what she had to ( _My father was a broken man, Yixing)_ , and he will forever be grateful. But still, he couldn’t escape the traitorous joy that comes whenever she wasn’t there—whenever he couldn’t feel her eyes on him. His friends told him it was repressed teenage angst he didn’t experience when he was busy raising himself ( _She’s amazing, Yixing, but sometimes I feel like she had no idea what to do and I expected too much and complained too little—_ ), but Manila, _god, Manila_ , reminded him it was just him finally feeling like _him_. This wasn’t rebellion, or happiness, or god forbid, freedom—it was just the unbridled feeling of being himself.

 

He loved, perhaps, in a way, his own father too ( _I don’t even know him, Yixing—he’s like a stranger whose face I vaguely share—but do you know we share the same birthday?_ ), but he was never a parent to him. Manila was.

 

She was enough—his mother—he would never replace her. And the city never surpassed her—he complemented her—so perhaps the city was the father he didn’t really have. Sometimes, in the silence of his dark dorm room, he surmises that he was a child of a convoluted same-sex relationship, but then—it wasn’t as if Manila were a woman, the blood that flooded it was not an indicator of life, but of death; it wasn’t as if it were a man, it offered too much nurture and provided too much _presence._ But perhaps, it was a man, he just didn’t know—he wasn’t really able to be raised by one.

 

( _I’m weird, Yixing—I look weird, I think weird—get used to it—hey!—stop laughing at me!_ )

 

His teachers in the Catholic elementary school his mother enrolled him in “to develop his values” often labeled the father figure as the provider ( _I cannot even remember a time he gave me anything for Christmas, birthday—or . . . I cannot even remember him_ remembering _, Yixing_ ). So maybe, he was wrong—the city wasn’t his foster mother. It was the father he didn’t really have.

 

It gave him what he never really got.

 

Himself. But most important of all, Yixing.

 

Yixing was the greatest gift he ever received—and even if that were the only gift he would be able to receive from a father, he would still proclaim his love for all father figures. In fact, he’d celebrate Fathers’ Day without any disdain for the holiday, forgetting the day-long awkwardness between him and his mother as everyone on live television—even the commercials—greeted fathers and their importance and _contribution_ on their special day. Yixing made him forget all of that. He made it all worth it. Thank you, Manila.

 

That’s why on nights like this, he forgets to abide by his mother’s words. He sits on the grayed out plastic chairs that at one point probably enjoyed being white, and lets his elbows rest on the tables that will forever be sticky because of the countless spillages of beer, juice, and tears. He allows his stomach to digest cheap ramen that his claims of _“Mama, masarap po dun”_ his mother would have scoffed at, retorting _“Gusto mo bang magka-hepa?”_. He permits himself to shut his mothers’ qualms about illnesses and downs the ice-cold water served from the plastic pitchers whose origins he doesn’t know. He breathes, tries to bury his mother’s fearful whispers about safety and security, and swallows his apprehensions about the intentions of the strangers sitting around him. He doesn’t hug his bag close to his chest to keep it safe, he smiles at the child asking for alms, and he shuts his mother’s alarmed, _judging_ hisses about the lives of the other customers.

 

( _“Bakit naman nila gagawin ‘yan, anak?_

 

_Alin, Mama?_

 

_Dalawang lalaki? Magsasama? Ano nang nangyayari sa mundo?”)_

 

 

He shuts it all out and tries very hard to focus on the man in front of him. This—this was easy.

 

The city could betray him at any moment, and leave him without any notice. Hell, he could be stripped off of his everything, but as long as Yixing was there, he would never feel like he had nothing.

 

_I’m sorry, Mama._

* * *

 

 

Translations:

“Mama, masarap kaya.” = “Mama, it’s delicious there.”

“Gusto mo bang magka-hepa?” = “Do you want to have _hepa_ (hepatitis)?”

“Bakit naman nila gagawin ‘yan, anak?” = “Why would they do that, son?”

“Alin, Mama?” = “Which, Mama?”

“Dalawang lalaki? Magsasama? Ano nang nangyayari sa mundo?” = “Two men? Together? What is happening to the world?”

 

 

* * *

 

**3\.    National Museum, Manila.**

 

Art scared him.

 

It was the only thing he couldn’t know.

 

No amount of Googling, or binging Wikipedia at 4 am could ever give him the enlightenment to completely comprehend art. It wasn’t as if he didn’t try—he did. He tried to familiarize himself with the masters—da Vinci, Monet, van Gogh—but all he got were trivia he had no use for except to ace his Art teacher’s test (which was practically paraphrased from a chapter test in one of the textbooks in the library). In one of his required classes in college, his teacher said she’ll teach him how to appreciate art, but all he got from that class were more useless trivia about more people (there were no tests this time—his teacher magically conjured his grade out of thin air).

 

He didn’t know art, he couldn’t know art, but he had always been interested in it—at least, interested enough to pretend to know it.

 

So, he tried his hand with writing—words were easy. They were just letters strung together, tied by the rules of grammar, bound by the initiative of painting a story. At least with writing, there was a structure—one he could study, analyze, and _know_. He would pretend that he was good at writing, that it was his “creative” outlet, that it was his _art_ , but deep inside he knew it was a farce. All he was doing was claiming something he forced himself unto as his art form.

 

His grandfather was a few college units away from being an architect. Instead, he drew portraits. Cooking was his grandmother’s craft. All of his cousins were artists, their hands concrete evidences of his grandfather’s lineage. But him? Most of his cousins were singers, even—the one who was also his age a piano prodigy. But him? He had no creative talent. His mother knew probably about his status as a creative black hole—she’d always talk about his kindergarten’s strategy of training him to be right-handed, thereby removing his innate left-handedness, ruined any potential of drawing beautifully, or even having nice penmanship.

 

But writing? Writing didn’t need to have perfect, creative, functional hands. He didn’t need hands that would be able to see where the pen should flow so that the picture would be phenomenal. All he needed with writing was a determined mind—with a cloudy but interesting picture in his head, all he needed was the strong will to string words together to describe it. Once he did so, it was like unlocking the puzzle.

 

Perhaps he was lucky that mostly no one in his peers decided to claim writing as their art form. There were some, but the structure and form needed in writing disallowed them from being recognized by his teachers, and he—he who has mastered the structure—he was recognized, and _praised_. He was an artist, finally.

 

That, of course, all changed when he encountered a poem he couldn’t understand. He tried to—he dissected each line, each word, stalked the author’s life, tried to connect it with the poem—nothing made sense. But that was how poetry was, and when he found out how it _was_ —how it rejected all that he knew, he found out that he knew nothing at all. He got frustrated looking for a structure to rely on, and gave up. He wasn’t an artist. Finally.

He sobered up.

 

Once you have faced the fear of your own hubris, there is no other fear that could leave you daunted.

But Yixing came, and—

 

 

Yixing scared him.

 

He was the only person he couldn’t read.

 

No amount of Facebook stalking, Twitter backreading, and friend pestering could give him a clear, concrete, _consistent_ picture of the man and his personality. Facebook said he was a boy from the south of Metro Manila, raised among the manicured lawns of the gated suburbs and concerned-but-busy working parents, supervised by the strict, conservative rules of exclusive (read: expensive), Catholic, all-boys schools. Twitter said he was the filthy-mouthed Philosophy student who would swear while deriding Derrida—is it even Derrida ( _look, Yixing: Derrida, Foucault, they’re all the same—all of them are old, white men whose books are too expensive for me to buy, too thick to read, and too smart for me to understand, and no, Marx doesn’t count—_ )?—and protesting about politics. Baekhyun would say that he was the guy who helped him, a freshman he didn’t even know, with the logic part of Math I, while Jongin would smile goofily and talk about his senior in the dance troupe who could break dance as if his life depended on it ( _Don’t you have a waist problem? Why do you keep doing stunts—don’t give me that look, Yixing Zhang, you’re not Spiderman. . . . Yes, I am well aware that I am not your mother, but you can’t help me from worrying when I know you’re hurt and tired and—why do I care? You’re asking me why I care? Because I lov—_ ).

 

He couldn’t read Yixing. He didn’t know how to. But he was interested in him. He never did have to try to pretend or fake his interest, because he had always been interested in the man.

 

Yixing was a puzzle unsolved, and Junmyeon couldn’t stop until he did. He could never grasp the full idea of Yixing, how he lies on so many contradictions, and yet exist completely fine. The man was aware of the lack of order, the absence of _right_ ness that he lived in—and he can smile. Freely.

 

Genuinely.

 

(When he told Kyungsoo about his worries, he knew the younger wanted to flick him but just restrained himself out of respect. _“Kuya Xing is human_ , the boy would say. _He’s not a puzzle to be solved. He lives within contradictions—like the rest of us do—and what you’re in awe of is him thriving. It’s not an impossibility, Kuya Myeon_.

 

But it was. Otherwise he’d be thriving too.)

 

 

 

Here are the conditions:

        The National Museum is the epitome of Junmyeon Kim’s greatest weakness: his own hubris.

        Yixing Zhang is the poster child of Junmyeon Kim’s greatest fear: uncertainty.

 

Which of the following CANNOT be true?

     a) Junmyeon Kim, without any complains, let himself be pulled into the National Museum by Yixing Zhang.

  
     b) Junmyeon Kim could not understand, comprehend nor could he distinguish what is right and what is wrong when he tried to analyze the paintings in the National Museum, but Yixing Zhang’s smile chased his apprehensions away.

  
     c) Junmyeon Kim felt safe and secure inside the National Museum with Yixing Zhang.

  
     d) Junmyeon Kim is permitting himself to fall in love with Yixing Zhang.

  
     e) None of the above.

  
     f) All of the above.

 

 

(Answer: F)

 

 

**4\.    that corner Chowking near UN station**

 

_“(Chowking always smells like a gasoline station’s bathroom, Myeon._

 

 _I want cheap_ lumpia _, Yixing._

 _Unless you want to make them from scratch and sell them_ _to me under a hundred pesos in under twenty minutes, be my guest._

 

_B-but . . . this is an affront to my people!_

 

_You can’t even use chopsticks properly, Xing._

 

_Junmyeon, my sun and stars, the moon of my life, hear me out: Bi. Non. Do. Please._

 

 _Yixing, my peanut butter to my jelly, the butterflies I feel in my belly,_ _hear me out:_

_I. Don’t. Have. Money. Please._

 

_I can’t believe I’m betraying my ancestry for you._

 

_Okay, Mulan. Call me when you’ve learned how to utilize_

_chopsticks outside of stabbing spaghetti and twirling them._

 

 _You’re so lucky I don’t know how to not love you._ ”)

 

 

Perhaps Junmyeon wasn’t that lucky anymore.

 

 

**5\.    Coreon**

 

They sat in front of each other not talking.

 

It was what was customary in the large space of Coreon Gate Internet Café, an unspoken rule when almost the entire store was occupied by students, their laptops, and the dexterity of their fingers.

 

 _Tik-tak-tik-tak-tik-tak_ , their fingers offered, filling up the silence that separated them apart.

 

 _Brrng-brrng,_ the café’s blender contributed, mixing Yixing’s drink, attempting to mask the tension evident between them two.

 

But inanimate objects do not have the power to bridge the gap between them. How could they—when even Junmyeon, breathing, with at least two (2) brain cells, didn’t know how to. Maybe he never did, maybe he did but he’s just won’t will himself to—none of it, the overthinking, the careful considering—none of it matters when Yixing won’t even spare him a glance.

 

If it weren’t for the only subject that they shared—a _fucking_ Anthropology class that Yixing enrolled for despite being out of his home campus and needing to travel over an hour twice a week to take—he knew his boyfriend . . . or maybe not (— _I’m not giving up on us, Yixing—no—don’t yo—I never gave up! I just made a mistake)_. . . would even try to talk to him. The two weeks of radio silence were enough indication of that.

 

But Yixing, despite all of Junmyeon’s mistakes, cared enough to not leave him in their pair project alone.

 

Or at least, that’s what he told himself. That Yixing cared. That he still cared. That he still lov—

 

It’s a funny thing, he surmises, to crave for Yixing’s attention. For his _love_ —when even he knows he didn’t deserve him anymore. He didn’t deserve to see the sunshine gleaming from the man’s smile, the crinkling of his eyes—the way he couldn’t even see the man’s eyes anymore but still know that he looked at Junmyeon as if he were—

 

As if he were the world. His world. His sunset.

 

Yixing looked at him as if he moved heaven and earth to—

 

( _“You would, you know?_

 

_I would what?_

 

_Tell God himself that you wanted to find me._

 

_. . . Huh?_

 

_At least, I feel like you would. Or that you’re capable enough to do so._

 

_Xing, when was the last time you’ve slept? I told you that you should be—_

 

_Myeonnie, the country has around a hundred million people. The capital itself has almost two million people. The numbers are against us, if you think about it. Don’t you ever wonder how we were able to find each other?_

 

_Are you saying we’re soulmates?_

 

_Soulmates mean that the stars, or the moon, or the celestial beings up above, or the divine creatures lurking in the mountains, or perhaps God him—her—them—however they want to be addressed as if our puny human language could ever be rich enough to accomplish the perfect address for God—selves have come into agreement and written our fates together._

 

_Okay, I’ll bite: and what—don’t you think that could have happened?_

 

_No. Because soulmates would mean no matter what happened, no matter how much the odds are against us, we’d be able to find our ways to one another—because Fate dictates it—because it’s written in the hidden code of whatever program that makes everything work. And . . . that’s weird. Where’s the independence? Where’s the autonomy? Where’s the—Myeonnie, I love you. But you know what’s the best thing about us is? We’re not soulmates—forced by some unseen forces to be with one another. We chose each other—out of the numerous, different possibilities—and stuck with each other._

 

_And what’s that got to do with me showing up to God him—her—them—whatever-self?_

 

_Because we would never have chosen each other if you hadn’t chosen me first. And you wouldn’t have chosen me if you hadn’t found me first._

 

_Why not the other way around? Why would I need to be the first one taking action, huh, Mr. Zhang? Are you that special?_

 

_No. I, alone, would never just try to even think of trying to claim that I found someone like you. I’d never think that I’d choose you. I’d never . . . fuck, I’d never thought that I deserve you in the first place._

 

_Yixing. . . ._

 

 _We’re not soulmates. There’s no red thread, or undiscovered constellation, or a large KIM JUNMYEON on my butt to label me as your one and only. There’s only me, you, and your unwavering decision in choosing me. Every day, I thank Him—Her—Them—Whatever that when you opened up yourself to someone, thereby trying to find_ someone _, God gave me to you. They said He-She-They-Whatever don’t make mistakes, but if this were one, I hope it never gets reversed—because we’re not fucking soulmates. I don’t have an inherent claim to you. All I have is your choice._

 

 _What about_ your _choice? You_ chose _me too._

 

 _Theoretically, that’s true. But I cannot remember a time where I didn’t_ not _choose you, so . . ._

 

_Aren’t you just talking about that quote from Tumblr that’s like_

_‘Across different universes, lifetimes, and whatnot, I’d find you, and I’d choose you’?_

 

_. . . . you got me, Myeonnie. But still, thank you. Thank you for choosing me.”_

 

 

Yixing’s buzzer lit up and vibrated, startling Junmyeon out of his thoughts. He couldn’t help it—he glanced at Yixing. Surprisingly, the man was already looking at him. Unfortunately though, he looked away quickly, standing up to get his drink.

 

 

 

_Knock, knock, knock,_

If You’re there, listening, please, hear me:

_I choose him, I choose him always,_

_I choose him againandagainandagainandagainandagain—_

 

Have you found him?

 

But,

He is right there!

 

But?

. . . right.

Is he _there_ ,

                child?

 

 

(Yixing was wrong. Junmyeon didn’t ask God. He asked Manila.

Junmyeon was wrong too. So his parent took away its gift.)

**6\.   somewhere in the crevices of Pedro Gil where the flood doesn’t reach**

 

It was raining hard.

 

Junmyeon was stranded in Pedro Gil with a cheap umbrella, expensive shoes, an immune system that would go havoc tomorrow, and the knowledge that his ex— _almost—could’ve been—should’ve been-_ boyfriend, Yifan lived in an apartment merely two buildings away from where he was standing right now.

 

Pedro Gil, in the rainy season, was a cruel, remorseless pimp: selling its people out to be ravished and abused by the onslaught of the rain. Then, there they all lied—wet and dirty and begging to go home.

 

That’s all you need to know. That’s all you _should_ have to know. But it’s not.

 

So, here’s what you really need to know:

  * When Junmyeon knocked on Yifan’s door, Yixing’s reaction about the situation crept into his mind already. Still, he ignored it. (Yixing would understand.)
  * Yixing Zhang has never been mentioned to Junmyeon’s mother as his boyfriend. He was simply known as Junmyeon’s friend from the same university but a different campus _(—yes, Mama, he’s taking Philosophy—no, Mama, I don’t know if he’s taking Law—Mama, he’s a great guy, I swear—no, Mama, I did not meet him through partying; I met him through Jongin, Kyungsoo, my junior’s boyfriend—yes, Mama, Jongin and Kyungsoo are dating and—no, Mama, I’m not like them. Please don’t be silly. Yixing is just a friend—Mama, you’re being ridiculous. Yifan was just a mistake, okay?_
  * Junmyeon was thirteen when his mother saw him holding hands with his best friend Yifan Wu. He was also thirteen when he saw his mother first try to hide her disappointment with a smile.
  * Yifan was fifteen years and three hundred sixty-four days old when he told Junmyeon that he didn’t want to be hidden anymore _—_ that he wanted to enjoy his sixteenth birthday in freedom. Junmyeon wasn’t there in his _best—boy—whatever_ -friend’s Sweet Sixteen. They both cried that night.
  * Yifan and Junmyeon have never talked about their history despite being in the same university. No one knew what happened between them—they were just old high school acquaintances, although he hinted about it to Yixing before. (He would understand.)
  * Yifan was Junmyeon’s first kiss, first boy _—whatever_ , first everything, but Yixing was the first one he loved. ( _I swear to God, Yixing, I swear—_ )



 

Of course, there’s _more._ That’s not all that there was, because Junmyeon didn’t let it to be _all that there was._

 

So, because of his initiative, here’s what you will now know:

  * Yifan still kisses Junmyeon like he was still fifteen years and three hundred sixty-four days old. Hot, longing, desperate for Junmyeon to choose him. Junmyeon kisses back like it was Yifan’s sixteenth birthday tomorrow. Hot, longing, desperate for Yifan to be pleased, to be satisfied. They both kissed each other like before—like it was their last.
  * Yifan saw the hickey Yixing left on Junmyeon’s right collarbone. He pretended he didn’t see. In return, Junmyeon pretended he didn’t see Yifan pretend he didn’t see. They continued. (Yixing would understand.)
  * Yixing called Junmyeon fifteen times that evening, but the latter’s phone had zero battery since early afternoon.
  * As Yifan opened Junmyeon up, entered him _again and again and again—in and out, in and out, in and out—_ glimpses of Yixing would pop into his haze-filled mind. His breath would hitch and stutter. Yifan kissed the visions away. More haze came. More moans were heard.
  * After Yifan and Junmyeon finished having sex, Yifan went to the kitchen and made coffee. Junmyeon went to the bathroom. They both cried.
  * Yixing’s sixteenth call was to Yifan. Junmyeon answered.



 

( _“—Yixing, I’m sorry_.

 

_Are you with him? Did you—_

 

_Xing, I—_

 

Putangina, _Junmyeon._ ”)

 

  * Junmyeon and Yifan had not one, not two, but more than a dozen of opportunities to stop what they were doing. They didn’t.
  * Junmyeon didn’t.



 

**7\.   that old church just across Roxas Boulevard**

 

He didn’t have much money in his wallet.

 

He didn’t have much friends either who would be willing to stay up in the wee hours of the morning to be with him as he wallows in misery. Actually, maybe he did, but he didn’t have the courage to call them in the wee hours of the morning to be with him as he wallows in misery. It was all his fault anyway. He doesn’t need support. They should all go to Yixing. He’s the one who deserves friends—who deserves support. Not the disgusting person that he is. He should probably just jump over the walls of the bay, be in one with the floating trash, hitting himself against the walls _again and again and again_

 

_in and out and in and out and in and out_

 

_(“Why?_

 

_I don’t know, Xing. I made a mistake. I’m so sorry, Yixing, I’m so sorry—I failed you, us—_

 

_Was it something I did? Or was it something I didn’t do? Did he do something I couldn’t? Is he that much better in bed?_

 

_Don’t ask me that, please. You don’t have to ask that—don’t ask if you could have done a better job, why I didn’t let you do a much better job—it’s not your fault, I swear, it’s not—I don’t know. I made a mistake, and I—_

 

_Then what? I can’t understand, Myeon. Why?_

 

_. . . I don’t know._

 

_Well, fuck. Figure it out yourself because I’m done._

 

 _—no, don’t, please don’t, Xing. Let’s not give up._ _I’m not giving up on us, Yixing—no—don’t yo—_

 

_The fuck? You’re actually telling me that I’m giving up? Was I the one who fucked someone else? And don’t even tell me it’s because it’s Yifan, and that he was there first, and—_

 

_—I never said that!_

 

 _. . . you didn’t have to say it, Myeon. You fucked him. You broke the promise you made when you told me that you’re doing this_ with _me—that you’re telling all your_ what if’s, could-have-been’s, should-have-been’s _goodbye and that you’re going to be_ with _me—a hundred percent of the way. Myeon, you’re the one who gave up._

 

_No. I never gave up! I just made a mistake—Xing, I swear to God, Yixing, I swear—_

 

_I’m done.”)_

 

 

He didn’t deserve the quiet solace that the haze of alcohol brought. Well, he didn’t have money to buy some either. He wasn’t stupid enough to go to some random stranger in one of the neon-lit bars around three blocks away to ask for a shot. Perhaps, he could get a free shot—he knew he wasn’t the only ridiculous person walking around Manila right now; some drunken idiot would probably give away a free shot to a stranger who claims to share the universal language of pain—but he didn’t want to do it. He didn’t deserve it. Pain might be the universal language that bound strangers, but it was also the universal language of guilt. Let it be his penance. At least, that was the best that he could to be forgivable.

 

But he would not permit himself to stay near the bay. It was around 4 in the morning, dawn will come soon—that was a beauty that he was not worthy enough to witness. The city of Manila nurtured him, cradled him, and provided him gifts that he led to waste—true, unbridled living, Yixing; true, unbridled living: Yixing. He thought he was indestructible, that everything was understandable, that Yixing would understand, that Yixing—

 

—that Yixing would understand no matter what.

 

Because he’d always choose Junmyeon, right?

 

_selfish idiot with your pride and your arrogance and your foolishness_

_you lost the best thing that ever happened to you idiot idiot idiot idiot—_

 

He found himself in the front steps of a church. Its large doors were locked. The gate that opened up to its courtyard was also locked.

 

He wanted to laugh. If this were God and the City’s way of telling him how much of a disappointment he was, he appreciated it. At least they were still sending him a message—that was more of being a father than his real one could ever hope—

 

He had always thought that he’d be better than his father. That he’d consider all of his father’s mistakes and make sure to never recreate them. In a way, perhaps he _is_ better. Better at breaking promises, better at hurting people. At least when his father left, he had never promised to stay. Junmyeon had promised the world.

 

So there he sat, on the stairwell in front of the church, not really thinking but more of just looking at his life. In a way, he felt like he’d be closer to Yixing here. He had always liked churches—perhaps it was the Catholic schoolboy remnants within him. There was something about churches that allured him; something about the hallowed walls and high beams of the old buildings would entice him and keep him at peace.

 

Before, Yixing would often remark that it was probably because churches have always been the home of the sinners. Millions of people have confessed their sins inside these walls. These walls have listened to millennia worth of sins from people of different backgrounds—rich and poor, old and young, frail and strong, the living and those who don’t feel like they’re living anymore. Churches, according to Yixing, were probably one of humanity’s greatest equalizers.

 

And there, he would add, is the beauty that attracted him—a place restoring balance to a world of chaos.

 

And there then also, is the beauty of Yixing that attracted Junmyeon—a man showing him balance in a world of chaos.

 

But of course, he would never say that at loud. Instead, Junmyeon would just joke about how Yixing was probably a fallen angel trying to get back home.

 

Funny how it happened that Junmyeon was the one outside a church, desperately clinging to feeling Yixing, his _home_.

 

In the two years and three hundred and sixty-four days—no, three years today, it would appear—that they were together, Yixing has never brought him to a church. He’d talk about them, but he never accompanied him to one. It was odd, when Yixing was the kind of person who would knock on his door at 2 in the morning just to ask him to roam around and explore the city with him—to discover the chaos, to taste the exhilarating feeling of the unknown. He never took Junmyeon to his sanctuary. Then, he would just think that churches were probably just a _Yixing thing_ —something he just enjoyed alone. He just let it be.

 

But, at 4 am in the morning of the night Yixing asked him to explore the city with him, in an un-airconditioned bus that was occupied by only them, the driver and his ticket collector, they both passed by a church. Yixing leaned into him—

 

( _“The only time I’ll take you there is when those walls are finally free to promote the equality it advocates, and loving you is not part of my sins anymore._

 

_—you’re the most ridiculous man I have ever met, Yixing Zhang—”)_

 

—because loving Yixing has always been a part of Junmyeon’s sins.

 

It was a sin against his mother, whom he lied to every day that he did not tell her about his greatest source of happiness. It was a sin against his father, whose absence _and_ presence (as little as it was) he had in his life he was forced to re-evaluate because Yixing scoffed at repression. It was a sin against Yifan, whom he never gave a proper ending, even before he began being with Yixing. It was a sin against the world, as he stole one of the best beings it had and selfishly kept him.

 

It was a sin against God, who allowed him to find Yixing.

 

It was a sin against Manila, his city, his foster mother, his stepfather, who tried its best to compensate and provided him with the best gift he had ever received.

 

It was a sin against Yixing, because honestly, he never deserved Junmyeon. He deserved the world, and Junmyeon fooled not just himself, but everyone else in promising he could give it.

 

He just . . . he just never could. He could love Yixing—and he did does—but he couldn’t be worthy of him.

 

 

Dawn was breaking and the sun was rising and Junmyeon closed his eyes. He was undeserving, but when you’re alone and sad, and your sad self doesn’t even want to accompany your alone self, you give up and try to cry out. Not for help, not even for someone to respond, but just someone to listen to.

 

For the first time in years, Junmyeon tried to pray.

 

 

( _“Father,_

_I can’t find him._

 

_That’s because you’ve lost him._

 

_How do I find him then?_

 

_Does he want to be found, Junmyeon?_

 

_Does he want to be found, Junmyeon?_

 

_Does he want to be found, Junmyeon?_

 

_Does he want to be chosen, Junmyeon?_

 

_Does he choose you, Junmyeon?”)_

 

 

 

“He doesn’t choose you anymore, Junmyeon,” he muttered to himself.

 

A soft sigh came from behind him. “I’m afraid I still do,” Yixing said.

 

**Author's Note:**

>   1. I’m well aware that I may not have depicted Manila in its finest form, but then again, Manila isn’t really that fine. Of course, if you don’t live here and hate on my city, we’re going to have a huge problem. But, I like to argue that all cities have their own chaos and of course, their own beauty to balance it out. I do hope I managed to show both in this story.
>   2. The Roxas Boulevard that I described—actually who am I kidding—I _featured_ in this story refers to the long long long boardwalk beside the Manila Bay in well, Roxas Boulevard. Now, it actually does have a scenic view of the sunset, making it an excellent spot for couples, tourists, and vendors catering to tourists. Manila Bay actually do have a bit of a problem with waste, making it also an excellent hub for small cockroaches and the like. It’s getting cleaner and cleaner as time passes though. (Yay, progress!)
>   3. Erra’s is a ramen place located in Adriatico Street in Manila. Adriatico Street is a long street of bars, nightclubs, and Korean and Japanese restaurants. Coincidentally, the street is also around twenty minutes away from a university that I will not claim I go to, so Erra’s is one of the staple hangouts among students.
>   4. National Museum is the National Museum of the Philippines. Go there. It’s nice, it’s pretty, and it’s the perfect excuse to feel space out and daydream while staring at paintings you don’t understand.
>   5. Chowking is a fast food chain in the Philippines that sells “Chinese food”. _Lumpia_ is _lumpiang shanghai_ which according to the internet is spring rolls in English. Also, according to Youtube reviewers, Chowking is similar to Panda Express. I hope that makes enough sense. UN Station is a train station.
>   6. Coreon Gate Internet Café is a huge internet shop wherein students go to sacrifice their fingers and fry their brains for the sake of writing papers. It also has fast internet and large tables, perfect for group activities (#notspon).
>   7. Pedro Gil is another street near the university I do not claim I go to. During rainy season (hi, Philippine monsoons), ankle deep floods are usual. Knee deep floods are unsurprising. Since it’s near the university, many students live in apartments and condominiums in Pedro Gil. (Let’s just pretend Yifan is rich enough to live alone despite the exorbitant housing.)
>   8. The old church across Roxas Boulevard is the Malate Church. I chose it because it’s the first church I went to and _prayed_ _in_ in ages and thought that Yixing would feel the same.
>   9. This fic is a huge, flaming mess, but it’s also the weirdest thing I have ever written—and for that alone, I’m a bit proud of it. If you study or studied in the university that I do not claim to go to, I hope you don’t know me. If you do, s h h h h h
>   10. _Putangina_ can be translated to “son of a bitch” but it holds more power in Filipino, I think. Also, if you imagine an angry and hurt Yixing saying that, the power intensifies.
>   11. Yixing being a Philo major is not my idea, it’s from the isko!exo rp, so kudos to the handlers. I also know nothing about Philosophy since all I did during class was eat instead of listening so. . . .
>   12. Let’s talk below?
> 



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